Duck Duck Goose
by Double Dog
Summary: When the words are gone, what's left? Not a deathfic, but deals with the aftereffects of a catastrophic injury to a main character. Mature emotional themes. Strongly influenced by The Echo Maker by Richard Powers.


_For last year's words belong to last year's language  
And next year's words await another voice._  
- from "Little Gidding," _Four Quartets_, by T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)

* * *

_"Uhhhhhhh,"_ Wilson whispered. 

House glanced over at him. Wilson was watching the ducks as they waddled and bobbled about; even now they were heading in their direction, hoping for a handout. At least -- it _appeared_ Wilson was watching the ducks. God knew what he was really looking at, if anything.

Wilson's left hand came up, his fingers waggling, grasping at something only he could see. "Uhhhhhh," he whispered again.

"It's okay, buddy," House said, and gently tucked Wilson's hand back under the blanket.

Wilson didn't resist, and House leaned back against the park bench. It was a perfect day, a cool breeze just giving way to the afternoon warmth. The waters of Lake Carnegie sparkled in the bright spring sunlight and the trails were host to scores of runners. A beautiful young woman jogged towards them, long, muscular legs moving in an easy gait, her athletic tank top wet with sweat. House whistled appreciatively, and she shot him an annoyed look as she passed in front of the bench. House leaned closer to Wilson's wheelchair.

"She wants me," he murmured. "I have to beat them off with a stick."

Wilson's eyes tracked the runner. "Stick," he said clearly. "Hick tick nick _stick."_

House nodded. Sometimes Wilson came out with strings of rhyming words like this. No one was sure if he was simply mimicking what people said around him or if his injured brain was trying to reconnect the synapses blown apart by the gunman's bullet.

"Stick," House agreed. "Wanna feed the ducks?"

Wilson didn't answer; he was blinking rapidly and trying to shift in his chair. It was difficult with his useless legs, so he usually resorted to rocking his upper body from side to side as if engaged in some terribly awkward, clumsy dance.

"Chill, dude," House muttered. He leaned forward, his tone low and conspiratorial. "Everybody's gonna think you're playing the hand organ underneath that blanket. You want to get us arrested for public indecency?"

Wilson stopped rocking and stared at him. His eyes were bright, and House held his gaze. Sometimes Wilson was _in there_, House was sure of it, looking back out at him with a rueful incomprehension at the situation he found himself in.

"Pubic indecency," Wilson announced. House snorted.

"See, now you can get away with that kind of stuff," he declared. "I don't know if you're making a really bad pun or if you've lost the letter 'L'".

Wilson hummed to himself. "Me," he said softly. "You."

House looked at him, but Wilson seemed disinclined to say anything else. House sighed and took the croissant he'd stolen from the hospital cafeteria out of his jacket pocket. Unfolding the napkin he had wrapped it in, he began to tear off small bits of the fluffy pastry, tossing them as far as the nearly weightless pieces would go as Wilson watched with rapt attention. The ducks fluttered and quacked as they snapped up the food.

A shadow fell over the bench, and both men looked up.

"Chase," Wilson crowed. "Rob-ert Chase."

Chase grinned down at the man in the wheelchair. "That's right, Dr. Wilson," he said. He took a seat next to House on the cool wooden slats. "House. Cuddy wants to see you."

"She always wants to see me, preferably naked," House grumbled. "Wait -- or is it the other way round?" Wilson's left hand had crept out from under the blanket again. House tucked a piece of bread into the palm and curled Wilson's fingers around it.

Chase ignored the bait. "She said you need to start doing your clinic hours again." House shook his head.

"Not until they get the metal detectors up in that shooting gallery," he said grimly. "And not until those useless rent-a-cops start searching every sorry son-of-a-bitch who comes through the doors looking for drugs."

Chase sighed. "It's in the budget for next quarter --"

"Next quarter doesn't do Wilson any good. Next quarter doesn't even _begin_ to cover --" House's head jerked around at the sound of a low, keening wail.

Wilson was rocking again, making little whimpering noises. The piece of croissant had fallen to the ground and two of the ducks were fighting over it.

_"Ahhhhhh,"_ Wilson said. _"Ahhhhhhh."_ His eyes had filled with tears.

Chase had quickly risen from his seat and was shooing the voracious waterfowl away.

"It's okay, Dr. Wilson," he soothed. "Shhhh, it's okay."

House took a deep breath and tapped the end of his cane on one of the wheelchair's footrests. Attention successfully diverted, Wilson looked at him.

"Don't cry, you moron," House said roughly.

Wilson hiccuped and snuffled.

"Can't take you anywhere," House growled as he handed the remains of the croissant to Chase and fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief. He pulled out the square of soft white cotton and held it to Wilson's face. "Blow," he commanded.

Wilson blew; it was a long, honking snark and House made a show of shaking out the cloth after he'd wiped Wilson's nose. "Fucking snot factory," he said fondly.

Wilson ignored him. His attention was fixed hungrily on the croissant half in Chase's hand.

"It's almost lunch time," House said. "Want some bread?"

"Red," Wilson chanted softly. "Bed, wed, fed, sped." The words reeled out, unspooling like a diction lesson on a foreign language tape. House nodded at Chase, who tore off a small piece and held it out.

"Open up," he said.

Wilson sighed happily and opened his mouth, tilting his head back like a baby bird. Chase placed the bread on Wilson's tongue.

"Ah," Wilson said, closing his mouth and chewing. "Mmmmpphghhdhgh."

"Don't talk with your mouth full," House warned. "You'd feel pretty stupid if you choked to death on a piece of bread now."

They watched for a moment as Wilson swallowed; the patch of skin where the trach tube had gone in was smooth and shiny. For a while the only sounds were those of the quacking ducks, the calls of songbirds, the dull ambient hum of outdoor noise.

"Come on," House said at last. "Time to go in. We'll do this again tomorrow -- okay, champ?"

Wilson's left hand drifted up. He rubbed at his nose.

"'kay, champ," he echoed.

"Parrot," House grumped. "Chase, you drive. I can't do all the work around here."

"Carrot," Wilson said suddenly. "Carrot, ferret, parrot, _bird."_

House's lips quirked up. A small connection. A tiny connection, but a connection nonetheless.

Maybe later another connection would come, and tomorrow another spark.

And the day after that, and all the days following.

He could always hope. A person had to have hope.

fin

* * *

_Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,  
Missing me one place search another,  
I stop somewhere waiting for you._  
-- from _Song of Myself_, Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892) 


End file.
